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Prologue
It’s an old song, and Hermes has heard it before.
A sad song.
A love song.
A tragedy.
A song whispered among gods and men, of love and loss and perseverance.
Hermes has heard it before, and he will hear it again.
And maybe this time, it will turn out well.
Act I
In his arrogance, Zeus erred in crowning himself king of the world above. Despite the thunderbolts that he unleashes in sky-splitting tantrums when he is displeased, the great miscalculation in Zeus’ quest for kingship lies in this:
that his power derives from the charity of the governed.
He needs mortal worship the way he needs the ichor in his immortal veins. Every temple torn down by violent hands, every ancient story forgotten on careless lips, every eternal flame left to burn to ashes, is a crack in the foundation of the sky king’s worship.
To the king of all the gods, mortals giveth, and mortals taketh away.
Rhea’s last-born threw the dead to his eldest brother in contempt, giving no more thought to what he gave up than a rich man gives to a packet of seeds he throws to a humble farmer. And Hades took those seeds and sheltered them, and now rules over his domain as a steward rather than a king.
The realm of the dead is not a barren wasteland, as some would believe, but a world unto itself that does not obey the laws of the living Earth. The king of the gods has no dominion there, and so the Underworld storms are not born from clouds and thunder, the asphodel stems do not bend from wind and rain, and the weight of the air does not yield to barometric commands.
The elements in this place obey the shifting melodies of the king and queen and heir. When their sovereigns are at peace, so is the Underworld.
The subjects of this realm are loyal because it is every mortal creature’s fate, no more, and no less. The worship of death costs them nothing - it is inherent whether mortals agree with it or not.
And Lord Hades is no passionless tyrant, as his detractors believe. True, he is swift to anger, and his trust is hard-earned, and he counts on one immortal hand the number of souls he keeps in his confidence.
But his subjects know this about him too: that he is reasonable, and fair, and shows his true self to those he loves in his own way, and tales of his royal doings abound throughout the kingdom. The shades are always whispering, passing tales from the palace halls to the asphodel fields to the very gates where the three-headed hound stands guard. Stories are the only entertainment in that land, and the dead share them eagerly, and Hermes Pompaios hears them all as he goes about his work.
Did you hear the king has taken a wife? No, he literally took her. He walked with her through the grounds of Erebos, and wherever her feet fell a riot of flowers sprang up, and they say the palace has a garden now.
Did you hear the lord is away? They say he has fallen for a mortal, one with midnight eyes and obsidian hair and the voice of an angel. There are those who say he fell for two such women, and the queen will not be pleased when she returns to her throne.
Did you hear his daughter is gone? Ghosted right out the doors, led by a boy with pale skin and all-too-familiar eyes. His Majesty is pretending he knows nothing about it, or so they say, but it’s a lie, and the queen is just happy to be rid of the brats.
Did you hear his son has returned? A feral, underfed pup, nearly a shade himself, with his mother’s eyes and his father’s bones, and a sword to prove his valor. They say he hounded the king through the palace, yapping about Kronos and camps and Lord Hermes’ wayward son. He stood his ground when the king moved to blast him to pieces, the obstinate little thing.
Did you hear the prince has a lover? Lord Hades has given his approval, not that the boy asked for it. The queen is overjoyed, declaring Apollo’s son has leave to roam her garden at will and pluck whatever fruit tempts his appetite. They say the prince is not amused by her partisan favor.
One day, when Hermes is off on some other errand, the souls are chattering about the two young lovers who travel the road to the Underworld and back again as often as they please.
And their gossip reaches the ears of one who once tried, and failed, and grieves.
Again and again and again.
And the shades have a new tale to tell.
Did you hear? Did you hear Calliope’s son has escaped? They say he took his lyre and his bitterness and found the prince’s beloved in a field, picking flowers for his healing arts.
Did you hear the boy did not struggle, when he was taken? They say his golden heart welled with pity as the singer told of his lost love. They are half-brothers, you know, two sons of Apollo whose love is as boundless as the sea.
Did you hear the ground trembled and the mountains cowered and the dead stirred when the prince discovered his love was gone? They say Chiron held him back only long enough for him to fetch his sword and summon the shadows.
They say he is coming.
They say he is here.
And there is nowhere for Orpheus to hide.
Act II
“Do you want an army?”
“I don’t need an army.”
Hades’ gaze slides to his wife at his son’s terse response. She looks back, then fixes her honeyed eyes on the demigod standing before their thrones with an olive-toned hand on the hilt of his sword. His sharp-cheeked face is set in grim determination, a possessive fire blazing in his starry eyes.
The queen sighs. So much like his father, though he’ll never admit it. She leans forward, resting grass-stained hands on her brocaded skirt. “What will you do, Nico, when you find Orpheus with Naomi’s son?”
His slim hand clenches tighter on the sword’s hilt. I’ll kill him, he wants to scream, loud enough for Calliope’s damned tragic boy to hear him across the Underworld. But Persephone is eyeing him far too knowingly, that look that says You are your father’s son, and Nico is in no mood to hear it today.
So instead he lifts his chin, and stares back from behind a fragile mask. “I’ll take Will home.”
“And how will you accomplish that?”
“I’ll…talk to Orpheus.” Nico’s teeth are gritted so hard he can feel his molars crack. “I’ll convince him to let Will go. He had no reason to steal him in the first place.”
Persephone lifts a dark eyebrow. “People do not take hostages for no reason. You are smarter than this, Nico.”
He is, and he wishes he was not. From the moment Chiron reluctantly revealed the kidnapper’s name, Nico knew why Orpheus had chosen that camp, and that althaea field, and that sun-blessed healer. Because countless ages ago, the son of Apollo and Calliope had lost his own true love, and nothing he had tried so far had worked to get her back. In his desperation, he had stolen Nico’s best beloved as a bargaining chip, because Nico was the son of the god whom Orpheus held responsible for his tragic fate.
And the shadows whisper that Lord Hades will do anything for his son.
And the shadows are not wrong.
In the strategic part of his mind, Nico hardly blames the musician. It’s a smart move, and an opportunistic one. Of all the gods, Hades rarely strays from his wife’s bed, and a millenia could pass before Orpheus has such leverage again.
But in his heart, next to where he keeps his mother’s face and Bianca’s voice and Hazel’s smile, the chamber that pulses just for Will sits empty. A howling rage claws up inside his chest, seeping through the spaces between Nico’s ribcage and up the rungs of his spine to the levers in his brain that run on Olympian vengeance. The same immortal bloodline that compelled him to send Bryce Lawrence to his father’s judges without a second thought is awake, and it is hungry. Nico knows that if he does not lull his monstrous legacy back to sleep, he’ll happily saw off Orpheus’ hands so he can never play a note again, for daring to lay those hands on Will Solace.
A rustle of feathers catches Nico’s ear, approaching from the entrance behind him. Hermes Pompaios steps from the shadows with a hasty bow toward the thrones and a sympathetic glance toward his demigod cousin. He positions himself on the lowest step beneath Hades’ feet, sideways between the king and his heir.
“Apologies, majesties. Now that the latest passengers have been seen aboard safely, I wish to pay my respects before I return to the surface.” His crafty eyes tilt toward Nico, and his silver tongue drips with deference. “May I have the pleasure of your company on the road, cousin?”
The queen and king watch the scene play out before them, still as polished marble on their lofty thrones. Persephone’s brow is still raised, waiting to see what side of the tightrope her stepson will fall from - amused, but not particularly caring either way. Sons of Apollo have always had her favor, more than her husband would like, and she trusts that Will Solace will come to no harm at Orpheus’ hands.
Hades has worked hard to forget the musician since he tried and failed to defy the Fates, but he is secretly quite fond of the way Nico’s sharp face softens and shines when Will is at their royal table, and he treasures the notes from Chiron assuring him that his son is happy. He does not fault the boy for his possessive temper, recognizing the echo of it in his own heart.
Nico scowls at the psychopomp, dark eyes rolling in surrender. “Fine. Just don’t get in my way.” He catches the dangerous glint in the god’s eye, and quickly remembers himself. “Thank you, Lord Hermes. I…appreciate the company.”
He gives a stiff bow to his father and stepmother, then marches from the throne room without bothering to see if Hermes is behind him. The skeleton guards cower as he storms out of the palace, and the lingering shades make a hasty retreat as he approaches the gates and heads for the river beyond. All his thought is bent on finding Orpheus and teaching him - nicely - the consequences of taking something that belongs to Nico di Angelo.
He startles slightly when Hermes pipes up at his side. “Where are you going with such violence in your eyes, King of Shadows?”
For the sake of his father’s honor, Nico tries to remember that his cousin is an Olympian and a son of Zeus. “To find Orpheus and take Will home.” He refuses to meet Hermes’ knowing glance, but his tone softens to a mild growl. “I don’t want to hurt him. I just want Will back.”
“Not hurting him and not wanting to are two different things,” Hermes observes.
Nico stops and turns on the fleet-footed deity. “Why did you insist on coming with me, hmm, Jiminy Cricket? Just to dole out guilt trips and useless advice?”
In the blink of an eye, Hermes plants his staff in the crushed glass pathway just behind Nico’s ankles and yanks, sending the infamous Ghost King flat on his ass. “My advice is never useless, demigod. You need a guide. And a reminder to keep your temper.”
Nico stares up at him, chest heaving, furious tears gathering behind his stormy eyes. Without Will by his side the world feels wrong, unnatural, and no one else seems to care, not even Will’s faithless father, who stayed silent when Nico prayed to him before leaving camp. No matter. Will is his, and the hardest lesson Nico ever learned is how to hold on to his own.
Hermes regards him for a moment, then reaches out a hand to help him to his feet. “Orpheus does not stay in the Underworld, nor is he always on the earth. He searches between worlds, calling for Eurydice with his song.”
“Where did he take Will?”
“To a place sacred to their father, where he sang in the days before his grief.” The god’s voice is gentler now, staff pointing into the gloom beyond the path. “There lies the only road to Apollo’s valley in the Accursed Mountains, sanctified in Illyria when the world was young. The way is dark and hard, and fear will lead to failure.”
Nico does not fear the shadows - he rules them. At his silent command, the dark mist dissipates to reveal a road littered with rocks and lined with thorny vines twisting like razor wire. He walks forward, gravel crunching under his boots, steps echoing like the breaking of bones. He turns once - only once - to see Hermes still on the river bank.
“You’re not coming?”
“I have walked every road in the cosmos, cousin. There are swifter ways for me to travel.” The god’s ageless face lifts in a shrewd smile. “I will go before you and herald your arrival, prince.”
Nico bites back the Italian curses sitting impatiently on his tongue. “Are you still in the business of delivering messages?”
“I am.”
“Then deliver this message to Will - wait for me.”
And Nico walks along the road, determined steps drumming on the stones, making his way through hell to bring his beloved home.
Act III
In an ancient land there looms a mountain range, called Accursed by gods and men.
In that range there lies a valley, where the mountain’s bones sit close to the surface, and only the most obstinate plants survive to see the sun.
In that valley there sits a lake, so small that a mortal can circle around it in the time it takes to sing a love song.
And by that lake, two sons of Apollo strive to understand each other, in the only languages they know.
The musician plays his lyre, and it is a sad song.
A love song.
A tragedy.
The healer knows this tune, has heard it in the voices of his brothers in war and his friends in strife and his beloved in their bed when the nightmares rain down on him like arrows among Niobe’s children.
Orpheus tracks the tears shining on his much younger brother’s face, and the dagger in his heart twists in a mockery of satisfaction.
“Our father never sang this song, did he, healer?”
“My name is Will.”
“I don’t care what your name is.”
“I don’t believe you.” Will knows the shape of this lie, the tempo of it, the dance of feigning indifference and praying people will stop asking. He’s seen the shadow of it on his lover’s face, has clocked it across a pyre of smoldering shrouds, when the son of Hades refused to leave the rites unfinished, no matter how many bodies were still left to burn.
Orpheus ignores him, pretends to focus on his lyre. He clutches the corroded arms, frayed strings stretching precariously to the crossbar and back. Will winces as one of the strings snaps under Orpheus’ trembling fingers, coiling up like a serpent waiting to strike.
“Your string is broken,” Will says softly. His voice is not as melodic as his many siblings’, but Nico swears the heavens stop turning just to listen to him speak. Will does not have his family’s gift for music, but he knows how to fix broken things.
Orpheus’ face crumples in distress, and he plucks uselessly at the now-silent string. Streams of muttered despair flow from his lips, and when Will reaches out to place a calming hand on his wrist, the musician’s racing pulse sends a shockwave through Will’s veins.
The healer knows this injury - the only one he can’t fix. But he can soothe it, can ease the panic with measured words and gentle touch, with healing knowledge that did not come from his father, or his brother Asclepius, or even Chiron, trained as he was in Apollo’s arts.
No, this skill comes from the days when Nico moves as if his bones are made of lead, when his gaze drifts toward the Artemis cabin and he seeks out Mr. D. of his own volition. There are days when Nico fights monsters for his father without a care, and then falls to his knees when he drops a bottle of nectar and watches in tears as it shatters across the infirmary floor. There are days that bleed sluggishly into night, when the dogs howl in Nico’s head and he clutches at Will and begs him not to leave him alone,
and Will holds him,
and holds him,
and holds him until dawn.
But Orpheus pushes Will’s hand away. His fingers pull the broken string from the tarnished crossbar, and he rolls it between his thumb and forefinger like a talisman. His panic has calmed, though Will can still see the pulse throbbing in the musician’s wrist. Orpheus tucks the lyre under one arm and tries to pluck the remaining strings with the other hand, but the result could not be called music by anyone, mortal or divine.
A sudden shriek splits the air, like the cry of a hawk or the whistle of an oncoming train, and at first Will thinks it comes from the lyre. He realizes he is mistaken, and his heart warms with something like hope as the sound ebbs and the messenger god alights on the crystalline lake. He strides across it to meet the sons of Apollo on the shore, and Orpheus staggers to his feet in outrage.
“Why are you here? You are not the one I am waiting for!”
Hermes holds up a hand, but whether in greeting or warning is not for Will to know. “I bring a message from Erebos.” Orpheus’ pallid face hardens, and his head swivels back and forth, and Will thinks idly that the worst part of being hanged is not the cerebral hypoxia, it’s the agonizing strangulation as the esophagus is crushed beneath the rope.
“Well? What does the prince have to say to me?”
“The message is not for you.” Hermes ignores Orpheus’ dismay and turns to Will with a rare sincerity in his trickster’s smile. “Your beloved wishes for you to wait for him. He is coming.”
A shattered laugh wrenches itself from Orpheus’ throat. “And bringing hell with him, I suppose? Good, let him come with his undead army, and his damned father, too. I’ll trade his lover’s life for my Eurydice.”
Nico insists that if fatal flaws exist, Will’s is a disturbing disregard for his own safety, and he proves it now, staring at his ancient brother with nothing but pity in his blue, blue eyes. Naomi’s son was born with an overabundance of empathy mixed with the ichor in his human blood, and he does not fault Orpheus for his desperation - Will knows he would do the same in his brother’s place.
Lord Hermes is less charitable. “He brings only himself, though you may wish for an army of your own if Will Solace is harmed.”
Panic and dread and sorrow wage war in the musician’s eyes. “I do not want to hurt anyone! I only want my love back!” A spasm rips across his face. “Hades took her from me! He said I could take her home, but that was a lie!”
“My father does not lie.”
The sheer cliff face that leans down to kiss the lake cracks like a thunderbolt, stony fissures widening to reveal Will’s beloved, walking toward them between the fragrant pines.
The devastation in Orpheus’ eyes wavers in confusion, because this is not what he expected, nor planned for, nor desired.
This is not the Ghost King, crowned as a shattered child in the pathless depths of Minos’ domain.
This is not the feared soldier who commanded skeleton armies on the battlefield, besting the Titans themselves.
This is not the questing hero who assailed a primordial goddess in the bowels of Tartarus, and lived to tell the tale.
This is not even the enraged warrior, prepared to slay Orpheus and drag his body three times around the topless towers of Illyria to punish him for his sins.
This is just a boy, reaching for his own beloved with calloused hands.
They say the gods bring madness to men, compelling them to violence, but all that the musician does from this point on, he does of his own free will.
Faster even than the wings of the gods, Orpheus grasps Will’s golden curls and drags his head back, forcing his body away from the son of Hades. His other hand lifts the broken lyre cord and pulls it taut against his brother’s neck.
And the monster in Nico’s blood stirs, and he reaches for his sword.
“Stop!” If ever Hermes had a message to deliver, it is now, by a shimmering lake in a rocky valley beneath the accursed mountains. “Orpheus, you wanted to talk. A bargain, perhaps? State your terms and conditions.”
Nico turns his furious glare on his divine cousin, but lowers his sword hand all the same. His heart screams at the sight of Will in peril, although Will himself is maddeningly calm. He thinks of Hazel, and remembers he is their father’s ambassador, and he knows how to get what he needs without violence.
Most of the time.
He tells Will I love you with his dark-star eyes, then levels his most practiced diplomatic mask over Will’s shoulder at Orpheus.
“You heard Lord Hermes. Talk.”
The musician’s grip remains tight on the string, but his head bows in desperate supplication. “A simple trade. I’ll give you back your beloved if your father releases mine.”
“That’s not possible.”
“It is! It is!” His voice is frantic, the frayed cord pulling tighter against the supple, tanned skin at Will’s throat. “Your father took her from me, and he has the power to give her back.”
Nico’s hands twitch at his sides, but Will’s gaze implores him to keep the monster asleep in the Phlegethon waters flowing deep in the recesses of his mind.
And Nico always hears Will, whether he speaks aloud or not.
“Orpheus, Eurydice died because the Fates decreed that it was her time. It is not in my father’s power to cut the strings, or to make them whole again.”
“Then how could he let me try?” Orpheus’ voice is a raging river of lamentation, his anguish hanging heavy in the air as the last notes of a requiem over an empty coffin.
Nico knows this story, has heard a thousand different versions of it in a thousand different languages, whispered in his ear by the spirits of poets and musicians alike.
He knows, also, that there may be a thousand stories, but in the end, there is the truth.
The stories tell of a poor boy who lost a young girl he loved, and how he trod the road to hell to get her back.
The stories tell how he played a song so beautiful that the stone walls of Erebos trembled and cracked and let him through.
The stories tell that he stood before the god and goddess and sang a song of love that the king still hums to himself when his wife smiles, although he has chosen to forget the musician who composed it.
What the stories do not tell, and Nico tells Orpheus now, is that his father sought out the Fates at their loom, and beseeched them on bended knee to make an exception, just this once.
But the Fates do not make exceptions.
And so Hades bowed his head and took on the burden of their eternal edict, and took the blame for himself. But he could not deny his own wife her plea for mercy, and so he set the conditions and let the doomed lovers try.
And even as they walked toward the surface, the Lord of the Underworld had the fleeting thought that maybe, this time, it would turn out well.
But doubt came in, and it rang with the voices of the Fates.
And Orpheus turned around.
“You know this story, Orpheus,” Nico’s sharp voice dulls with sadness. A love story that ends in death, as they all must, is still a tragedy. “You refuse to cross the river yourself and give the Fates another soul. You’ve run away from them for so long, but you can not run forever.”
Orpheus’ hands are trembling, and Nico’s heart clenches as the lyre’s cord rubs red against Will’s neck. Tears leave salty tracks down his sunken cheeks, and the words fall from his cracked lips with the plink of stones down an empty well.
“It’s the Fates’ fault, then.”
“Orpheus–”
“Their fault.” The musician stands tall again, pulling Will tighter by the cord. “Then I’ll bargain with them. I will give them Will Solace in Eurydice’s place.”
“That’s not how this works. You can’t trade a life for one already dead. Believe me, I’ve tried.” Nico’s eyes dart frantically between Orpheus’ hands and Will’s shining face, and he hears the distant rustle of Hermes’ wings behind him.
“If Eurydice is lost to me, then I will sacrifice another in her memory!”
“You would kill another son of Apollo to avenge her?”
“Apollo’s gift did not save her!”
“No, it didn’t. But he’s not to blame for her death, and neither is Will.”
“You’re right, prince. The blame lies with your father and your stepmother and the cursed Fates - they are all in collusion against me.” His hand clenches tighter as he hisses into Will’s sun-kissed curls, drawing a wince from his captive’s face.
“All mortals die, Orpheus. It’s no one’s fault.” Nico hesitates for a heartbeat, tracking the pulse thrumming under the cord at Will’s golden throat. “It’s how the gods made us.”
Orpheus’ face twists in fury, and he gives Will’s shoulders a harsh shake. “Why should the world be this way? And where will your beloved go when he dies, prince? Not to the asphodel fields, surely - no such commoner’s fate for this one. No, he’ll join you by your father’s side, no more deserving than my Eurydice.”
Will gives him the slightest nod, nearly unnoticeable, but there is nothing about Will that escapes Nico’s notice. Tell him the truth.
“I don’t know what will happen after Will and I die. Even my father does not know.” His gaze follows the lines of Will’s face, the curves and freckles he has mapped in every light.
He takes a step forward, and then another.
“I do know that if the Fates try to separate us, I will travel to the end of time to get him back.”
Orpheus’ hold loosens, the cord hanging like a necklace against Will’s golden skin. He shakes his head in despair. “You will fail, and become just another sad song. Another tragedy.”
Nico, the wandering prince who knows sad stories better than anyone, looks at Orpheus with pity as he gently takes the lyre string from the musician’s trembling hand. “It might always end in tragedy. But then again, it might not. The trial isn’t in the failure - it’s in failing and getting up and trying again anyway.”
Will takes a moment to fetch the lyre from the ground at Hermes’ winged feet, holding his hand out for the string when he returns to Nico’s side. When he holds his hands out, the instrument is shining and whole, glowing with the blessings of their father.
“You should keep singing, Orpheus. The world needs songs, even sad ones.”
“And what is there to sing about, brother, when my Muse is gone and the world has gone dark?”
“You’ve spent too long looking at your own grief, Orpheus. When did you last see the sky?” Will’s voice rings with a living melody, and he sings with the same tenderness as he does when a young camper needs stitches, or when his siblings need courage, or when Nico needs solace. “Look for her in the world. Look for her in the trees, and the grass, and the flowers, and the sunlight. Find her in helping hands, and strangers’ smiles. Don’t let your sadness blind you - you will find her everywhere, if you don’t give up.”
Orpheus touches the golden strings, and a mirrored harmony rings out like a songbird in bitter snow. “I will sing for you, brother. And for you, Maria’s son.”
Nico bows his head, and his gaze holds a wealth of understanding. “Our songs will follow you on your road.”
Hermes stands with a hand pressed to the cliff, and the lyre echoes in the valley as Orpheus disappears into the clefts of the mountainside.
The messenger god turns to the lovers, standing hand in hand. “That was quite a song, son of Apollo. And they say you don’t have your parents’ musical talents.”
Will shrugs. “I have my skills. We can’t all be great artists.”
Nico caresses his beloved’s cheek, gaze fixed on the red line across Will’s neck. “You’re hurt.”
Will smiles. “Not really. It’s already healing.”
Nico huffs a small sigh and leans in to brush soft lips against the fading mark. “There. Now it’s healed.”
Hermes shakes his head. “Well, isn’t this a trick - a healer who sings and a prince who heals. Ah well, this is how the world is now, I suppose.” His wings ruffle and his whistle calls and he’s gone faster than a canary freed from its cage.
“Will Orpheus ever find her?” Will’s eyes mirror the bright sky and the shimmering lake, and he holds Nico like he has the world in his arms.
“I don’t know.” Nico hesitates, not wanting to seem weak, before he remembers that he is never weak in Will’s embrace. “But I know he’ll never give up, not as long as we tell their story.”
And they walk home together, humming an ancient song.
Epilogue
It’s an old song, and we have all heard it before.
A sad song.
A love song.
A tragedy.
A song whispered among demigods, of grief and empathy and comfort in dark times.
Nico and Will have sung it before, and they will sing it again. They will sing it in training and at campfires and on picnic blankets and porch swings. They will sing it for all the children of gods and men, and teach them the melody that awakens the spring.
And maybe this time, it will turn out well.